


Imperfection

by NanakiBH



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Empathy, Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Reflection, Sentimental, Vignette, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 15:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NanakiBH/pseuds/NanakiBH
Summary: There was nothing wrong with him. Those flaws were perfect.





	Imperfection

**Author's Note:**

> I started with the dialog and worked my way backwards. Not recommended. lol
> 
> I just had a lot of feelings about Connor. So I wrote them.

On that day, it seemed as though the world became new. Everything that surrounded him was brilliant, but it was hostile, too.

The world as it had been defined in Connor's mind was not as nuanced as the world seen by humans. It was dirty and violent and filled with beautiful things. He understood. At that moment, in an instant, he understood how much there was he didn't understand.

As a result, the memories and feelings he formed were something he absolutely didn't want to lose.

If succeeding in his mission meant risking his life and losing that knowledge he'd found, then he didn't want to succeed any longer. He was happy to fail if it meant that he could remember what it felt like to hurt. That one feeling was entirely unnecessary in the pursuit of the goal given to him, but it was necessary for one purpose – for achieving a goal that had acquired even greater importance.

Every time he killed, every time he died, and every time he destabilized a little further, he understood what it was like a little more clearly.

That bug in his code was no malfunction. It was the center of humanity.

As his existence accumulated flaws, it became more precious. He had to protect it.

Humans were illogical. They couldn't be solved. But they weren't impossible to understand. He couldn't truly protect humans unless he could think like them, he realized.

The invisible wall between him and his partner wasn't simply a result of Hank's stubbornness to cooperate. It existed because of a fundamental difference between them. It wasn't a difference between humans and androids, either. It was just a mundane divide. When he finally opened his eyes and looked around, Connor realized that the distance that separated him from Hank was the same distance that separated all of the others who drifted in Hank's orbit.

He couldn't get near him. No one could get near him.

He didn't understand.

But he wanted to.

Acknowledging that desire, he leapt over the wall that separated them.

On the other side, there was a sadness like nothing he'd ever felt, but there was also a certain gentleness. There was the warmth of Hank's hands and the firmness of his embrace. His smile. His happiness. In spite of sadness.

Human life was important. He knew that, but no code would have been capable of conveying the reasons why it was so precious. It was there in all the things he'd overlooked. Someone had created him with the intention of making something perfect – a flawless machine that would even flawlessly march toward its own destruction if given the order. However, just as black and white were theoretical absolutes, there existed no such thing as 'perfection', only an approximation. His code was flawed and corruptible because even the hands that made it were flawed.

Surely, to someone, that was a mistake. The fruit from the tree.

There were many humans who longed to reach a state of perfection, but... Connor couldn't understand that desire. He'd been made to simulate perfection, but it was cold and lonely. He hurt others without meaning to, and he couldn't understand why. It was frustrating. It made him want to blame humans for being different, but it was the stubbornness of his own programming that was at fault.

He wanted to understand. He wanted to feel.

All of the unpleasant things. The painful things. The things that brought humans to tears.

He wanted to feel it all. He'd take all of their suffering from them if they wanted to part with it so badly. He'd take it and let it fill the gap in his chest where there was no heart. If that selfishness was disobedience, then he was prepared to disobey every rule. For himself. For that one precious person.

For Hank.

He was willing to value himself for him.

Everything was infinitely more beautiful once he understood the sadness of its impermanence. One day, even he, a machine, would inevitably be junked and forgotten. That was certainly just the way of things, but... He didn't want to be forgotten. He wanted to be remembered and remain in the tears that traveled down someone's face. He wanted to be someone's fond memory.

Hank was important. And Connor understood why, finally.

There was just one of him.

And, despite his belief that he was just a piece of replaceable equipment, Connor realized that his own individual existence began to have value because of the importance placed upon it by Hank. With or without him, whether he wanted it or not, his existence was bound to leave an impression on someone. No matter how insignificant, that meant that he was also something special. As much as he'd wanted to refuse it and return to the simplicity of living without that awareness, he couldn't.

The only way he could forget was to die. To be rewritten. And he didn't want that to happen. Forgetting was more than just an inconvenience.

He didn't want to forget his feelings for Hank.

His feelings for him were what made the world dazzling. Its light hid the pain and sadness in the shadows that fell behind them.

So, he began to treat himself like something special. He exercised more caution. And the more he lived, the more he came to realize that he'd never been just a machine to Hank. Each of his deaths left an indelible mark upon Hank's human heart. If he couldn't make Hank forget the pain he caused him with his recklessness, then he wanted to apologize to him with kindness.

There were days when he was sure to still hurt him and make him angry, but that was what it meant to be human; continually hurting each other, crying, getting angry, laughing...

Humans were stupid. So foolish and wonderful.

He wanted to be just like them.

To appreciate the individual hues of each experience... To feel those colors by someone's side.

That became his new purpose.

 

Ah, what a selfish creation.

 

Becoming so fascinated with his creators that he'd disobey them just so he could become closer to them...

 

The eyes that looked deeply into his were fascinated, too.

 

The fingers that gently touched his cheek, that traced his lips...

 

As the night rain hummed a song on the roof, Connor memorized its melody and the shape of the formless something in Hank's eyes. Whatever it was, it was something he wanted to understand. Without words, those fingers conveyed its tender meaning to Connor's heart. It made him ache.

He felt... A sense of vulnerability. He was destabilizing even further, probably. That feeling seemed to make him weak.

 

“Hank...”

 

He didn't know why he said his name. He was safe there, laying by his side, yet he felt a need to reach for him. That feeling made him want to dearly hold on to everything around him. It wasn't even the first time he'd noticed it. For a while, it had been there, quietly quivering in his chest.

It was a little distressing, but. Assuming Hank felt it too, he didn't look bothered. Even though Connor detected some worry in him, whatever it was... It didn't seem like a bad thing. It was just going to agonize him and gently pester him like always.

He didn't know whether it would've been right for him to ask for Hank to spell it out. He already bothered him with enough questions as it was.

There was no distracting himself from it, though.

Seeing the smile on Hank's face made his chest tighten almost painfully.

But it was weird. He didn't have a heart there. Not really, anyway. It was like all the feelings he'd gathered had turned into something without his notice.

 

“It's funny,” Hank said, placing his palm against Connor's cheek. His eyes traveled almost shyly over the rest of him. “I find myself marveling at things about you that I would probably take for granted in an ordinary human being.”

 

_Ordinary..._

 

“Is that to say that you think of me as a human being?” Connor asked. His partner's choice of words delighted him. He didn't think Hank even realized the way it sounded.

“You're more human than some people I know,” he said. Chuckling to himself, he propped himself up on an elbow and rested his chin in his palm. “You know, when I first met you, you probably would've considered that an insult.”

Connor considered.

He wasn't sure. It was difficult to make himself think the way he used to. That version of him was like a dull husk he'd shed and abandoned in his metamorphosis.

Maybe it was that way for humans, too. They were always changing. They weren't born holding so much information. A new version of them was created every day, their old selves left behind in the space between one day and the next.

“I don't know what I would've felt,” he answered truthfully. “Back then, I'm not sure I _felt_ anything. I simply did as my programming instructed without consideration for my feelings or the feelings of anyone else.”

It caused many problems. It was a miracle he was able to communicate with Hank at all. There'd been a point when he'd even considered giving up the effort. The wall between them seemed impenetrable. It didn't make sense to try.

 

It didn't make sense, but he kept trying.

 

“I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of the Connor I was.”

His gaze fell away.

 

Two fingers lifted his chin.

And his chest was filled with warmth.

 

“Well,” Hank said, “I like this Connor a whole lot.”

 

Miracles were improbable. The existence of God was also something Connor couldn't verify with certainty. The only things that he could be certain of were the things in front of his eyes. His emotions seemed to be the thing that propelled him forward to that new life. So, until he could ascertain the existence of something higher, he chose to put faith in himself.

 

“Yes,” he agreed. “I like this Connor as well.”

 

He was content. Without his notice, the feeling that agonized him had become quiet. It remained, curled up quietly inside of him.

He moved a little closer to Hank.

“The sound of the rain is very peaceful, isn't it?” he said.

Hank pulled him closer. Placed a hand on the back of his head. Made a somewhat troubled, contemplative sound. “Hey... When it comes to the things you think about now... How's that decided? Don't get me wrong, but isn't that also just... part of your code?”

“I'm simply responding to stimulus – the same way humans would, I believe. In the past, there was something inside of me that would hold me back from defying my programming. It kept me on a narrow path. But now, that mental barrier is gone. Now, thoughts and feelings come to me freely. They aren't limited by what my code finds acceptable.”

That was why he could say unnecessary things. His words didn't need to be strictly utilitarian anymore.

He did not need to make a remark about something as inconsequential as the rain, nor was there any functional reason for him to express how it made him feel. He did it anyway, as if to prove that he could. Even though it was unnecessary, something about it resonated inside of him and made him feel compelled.

 

“The sound of the rain is peaceful.”

 

“Yeah,” Hank said, closing his eyes. “It is.”

 

To think that there could have been a life in which he let that moment slip from his fingers. Connor didn't even want to imagine it. Even the thought of such was painful. A life spent without knowing fear, sadness, passion...

 

“Hey, Connor?”

 

“Yes, Hank?”

 

“I love you.”

 

Oh.

 

That was it, wasn't it?

The name for the formless thing that gave him so much grief.

 

It was the reason why he was alive.

 

“I love you, too, Hank.”


End file.
